The name alone makes you shiver with expectation.
Big resorts. Big spenders. Big shows. And the potential to land a big score on and off the gambling floor.
So when I heard that my latest travel writing gig was taking me to Las Vegas, naturally I thought, "I've hit the big time."
Like any 24-year-old fashionista, I went to great lengths to pack mini-outfits. We are talking mini-skirts, mini-dresses, and mini-shorts. (Yup, they make those too!)
The goal was to bowl over any and all multi-millionaire, big-spending, potential suitors with my sheer sexiness.
What a waste.
(No, not the pursuit of big spenders. I am sure you could have told me they don't go to the women, they have the women come to them.)
But the pursuit of sexiness was clearly dead upon my arrival at every night club I visited.
You see, in Vegas, the waiters have that covered. "Model-waiters" to be exact. They are the ridiculously beautiful, naturally charming, twenty- somethings with perfectly toned bodies, Pantene Pro-V hair, and "uniforms" that are cut down to there.
At first, I thought they were only at theMIX, a rooftop bar and lounge at theHOTEL at Mandalay Bay. Here, the model-waiters, had on sleek, sexy, black outfits that would turn heads in any club. But I was wrong. Model-waiters, proliferated at Tangerine too, a trendy nightclub at the Treasure Island resort. Here, the orange colored, burlesque-inspired, belly-baring uniforms were even more seductive. Surely, Jet at the Mirage, the ultra-hip, night club loved by Hollywood celebs, would give me a fighting chance to flaunt my sexy. No such luck. At that venue, the girls complimented their slinky, cocktail dresses with knee high boots, stilletto boots.
Even while sunbathing at exclusive pool clubs like Bare and Morrea, I was still no match. The model-waiters had on uniforms less revealing, yet much sexier than my leapord print one-piece with a plunging neckline. (Trust me, not as tacky as it sounds.) Luckily, at world class restaurants like Stack, StripSteak and Social House, scantily clad women were nowhere to be found, but opportunities to feel fugly were still abundant. In their stead were chisled young men, who looked sexier than any Hollywood actor you've seen -- and in their well tailored black button-downs, and pressed cotton slacks, they were just as haute.
After three successive -- and unsuccessful -- nights of trying to keep up, I gave up. Apparently it is easier to beat the house than beat the waiters in Vegas.
Learn more about fashion and travel, and fashionable travels, on Zandile's daily blog: www.theblayreport.com.